


Somebody Said, Be What You'll Be

by Mizzy



Series: Spideytorch [4]
Category: Fantastic Four (Comicverse), Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: Amnesia, Comic Book Science, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Identity Porn, M/M, Secret Identity, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 11:50:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5047408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/pseuds/Mizzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay, so here's the lowdown: he's naked, he doesn't know his own name, there's a Spider-man suit in the hotel room bathtub and his equally naked buddy can set himself on fire. Yelp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somebody Said, Be What You'll Be

**Author's Note:**

> {Featuring your daily healthy dose of #COMIC BOOK SCIENCE}

 His first thought when he wakes up is regret.

Later, he'll think, _oh, that's probably apt for my life in general,_ but that isn't in his brain yet. Mostly because his brain is too busy being occupied by a stream of rapid thoughts, which go something like:

  *          Well, I'm naked.
  *          And I'm on the floor.
  *          Curled up on the floor and did I mention, naked. 
  *          On the floor of a hotel, probably, from the bland colors and the edge of a satin-edged coverlet hanging off the end of a weirdly-shaped bed and at the furthest point of sight, a door with a peephole and a fire escape plan tacked up to it.
  *          There is a naked guy curled up next to me.
  *          A pretty hot naked guy.
  *          I mean, look at those muscles. And the mussed blond hair.
  *          And did I look at those muscles enough, nope.
  *          I'm naked, he's naked, ergo we probably had sex, fell off the bed in the midst of the passion, and _I don't remember a thing of it._



Ergo… the regret.

He tries to move, but his muscles ache. Oh. Yeah. The probability that he had hot athletic monkey sex with the hot blond guy — the hot athletic sex that he's completely somehow forgotten — is rising with every moment. Even though there's no twinge in his ass when he moves. He squints at the guy's six-pack as he ponders that thought through. Not only did he land the hottest guy in the world, but he _didn't_ bend over immediately to take that — and the only word that works is _endowment_ — in every conceivable way possible? What's _wrong_ with him? Despite the memory loss, that is.

He manages to fight the body ache long enough to sit up and scratch his head, and he pulls the coverlet down from the really bizarrely shaped bed next to them to cover himself, because he's feeling exposed. And definitely lacking, next to the guy. He struggles to get to his feet, and he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

An unfamiliar face stares back — wide hazel eyes and a scruff of brown hair that looks impossible to tame and a surprisingly built body of his own beneath that surprised face. He lets the coverlet fall a little too far in his confusion — but there's nothing down there to feel inferior about, apparently.

He furrows his eyebrows, and the shocked face in the mirror does that too.

_What?_

He stumbles forwards, taking care to step over the still-sleeping form of his— buddy? lover? He doesn't know now what to call the person still asleep in the room with him. But then… he's starting to realize he doesn't know much of anything at all.

The reflection looms bigger as he steps closer to the mirror, so that's that sorted: he _is_ the man in the mirror. He glances downwards at his body. Nothing seems excessively familiar. He looks down at the other naked guy in the room, then back at the mirror, then back at the room he's standing in. The bed is bare of the coverlet now, but has two pillows neatly at the head, two gold-wrapped mints sitting exactly in the middle. Whatever had happened in here, he apparently hadn't been able to wait long enough to even make it to the bed.

That guy on the floor must really be something.

He doesn't know. He doesn't even know his own name.

He freezes indecisively. Should he wake the guy on the floor? Should he look for clues to figure out who he is, who his companion is? The guy on the ground makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat; that makes his decision for him. Casting around, he sees a couple of bathrobes hung up on a rail; he puts the coverlet back on the bed and then goes for them. He shrugs his shoulders into one of the robes before grabbing the other one and crouching down next to the guy, putting a tentative hand on his forehead. The skin isn't hot. He thinks that's a good thing.

A moment later, the guy's eyes snap open — and the guy lurches forwards, hand outstretched.

He moves backwards away from him, fast. Really fast. His back's against the mirror, a good four meters away from where the guy is awake now and glaring at him, arm still extended, fingers curled into a claw. The robe lies discarded between them; he'd dropped it in his shock.

"Who the hell are you?" his room companion asks, eyes wild as he looks down at himself for a flicker of a second and then glares back up. "What did you do to me?"

"I didn't do a damn thing!"

The guy's eyes narrow and he straightens up and he lets his arm drop, but then they glare at each other as his companion reaches gingerly for the spare robe. "Who are you?"

"I don't know! I don't even know who I am!"

"I—" The guy blinks and wraps the robe around himself like it's part of the argument. "I—" He freezes, the robe hanging open. The guy's clearly unconcerned about covering up any of his body; he doesn't really have any need to be self-conscious, though. "I have no idea who I am either."

For a long moment, they stare at each other helplessly.

#

They both decide mutually to start looking for clues, and it's probably even weirder an experience than waking up naked with no memories and no name. Because when they start looking, it becomes more and more obvious where they are.

"Is this the honeymoon suite?" his companion asks in a somewhat horrified tone.

He shrugs back, trying not to stare at the fact that the bed is in the shape of a heart, the table by the door holds a large bouquet of red roses, and there's a massive bottle of champagne with a _congratulations!_ label dangling from it.

"I think so," he says, staring dumbly at the champagne. The images stream through his head like a flick book, but they don't feel like memories. They feel like a fantasy— the two of them kissing, stumbling through the door because neither wants to be the one lifted over the threshold, although— maybe— He side-eyes his companion. Maybe he might have let him carry him? Perhaps? He feels a little funny at the thought.

"We should keep looking," his companion says, and a cursory glance around the cream-decorated room — dominated by the heart-shaped bed — reveals no other clues. Which is a clue in itself, really — there's no clothes, no suitcases, nothing but the crumpled bed coverlet on the end of the bed. His companion pulls a confused face.

"Maybe the bathroom?" he suggests.

His companion shrugs, equally lost.

They walk into the bathroom and—

Oh. _Oh._ This is different. The bathroom is beautifully large, but that's not the real surprise. There's a small pile of items beside the sink, things that look like they were dumped in a hurry, and there's definitely a wallet and a phone amongst the pile, which is great. But the biggest clue is in the bathtub. It's a large heap of a clue, covered in a odd-looking transparent goo.

"Is that—" his companion says, tentatively, "is that a Spider-man suit?"

For a moment, they both look at each other, probably both struck by the same thought: how can they remember who Spider-man is, but not their own names?

"There's another suit underneath it," he points out to his companion. "Blue, maybe."

"There are lots of blue-wearing superheroes," his companion says, folding his arms and looking dubiously down at the gunky pile of clothes.

"You think— you think we're superheroes?"

"Yeah," his companion says, and looks across. "There's an alternative explanation for this?"

He flushes, because if his companion hasn't thought of it, he feels stupid saying it out loud, but he makes himself say it anyway. "Well, we're— I think we're in a honeymoon suite," he says, "and, uh, maybe we're superhero fans?"

"And we got married in fake superhero costumes," his companion breathes, and then glances down at his hands. "Wait, why didn't you put a ring on it, then?"

"Maybe we're poor."

His companion snorts. "Please, this place is snazzy. At least _one_ of us is loaded." He waggles his eyebrows. "Maybe you're my sugar daddy?"

He pulls a face, hoping he's not anyone's sugar daddy, and reaches for a wallet in the pile by the sink. "Let's look at this other stuff."

"Sir, yes, sir," his companion says, and picks up a small rectangular object, something metallic and complicated looking. "What the hell is _—_?" he starts, and then clicks something on the side, and they both dodge just in time for a stream of white _something_ to launch out of the object and stick to the wall. "Holy hell! I think it’s a webshooter!" His companion turns to stare at him wild-eyed. "It's not a costumed wedding, it's real. Dude. I'm _Spider-man_!"

"And I'm Peter Parker."

His companion looks at him, wrinkling his eyebrows. "What hell kind of superhero is _that_?"

"Not a superhero," he— Peter— says, and he holds up his find: a black wallet with a single card inside, a New York State driving license. The license has a photograph that matches the face he saw in the mirror on waking, and a name, printed neatly in the middle: PARKER, PETER B.

Peter. His name is Peter. He stares at the license for a while. Is he a Pete or a Peter? Or is he one of those guys that goes by his last name? Or his middle name, the mysterious B? Peter Parker? The alliteration's nice, he supposes.

"So I'm Spider-man and you're Peter Parker," his companion says, nodding. "Cool. You're probably a superhero too."

Peter wrinkles his nose. "I don't feel like a superhero."

"I do," his companion — Spider-man? — says confidently. "But it might be because I'm holding this." He holds out the webshooter triumphantly. "Thwip, thwip. Wow. I bet I have no memories because I was fighting a supervillain or something."

"A memory-wiping supervillain?" Peter asks, not hiding his scepticism.

"Uh, we're naked in a honeymoon suite with no memories," Spider-man says, waving the webshooter at Peter. He beams. Well, Peter thinks, it could be worse. He could have woken up naked with a supervillain. He may not know his own name, but at least he knows Spider-man's a looker under that red-and-blue spandex. "I bet it's not even the worst supervillain I've taken down." He smirks at Peter. "You're totally welcome."

"How did you come to _that_ conclusion?" Peter asks, rifling through the rest of the wallet, but it's mostly a dud — there's a crumpled five dollar bill and a receipt for a fruit pie from a convenience store.

"Well, you were probably thanking me," Spider-man says. "What with us being naked and all."

"Maybe we were naked because of that goo stuff," Peter says. "Memories aside, I'm getting a real strong feeling—" and it is a strong feeling, like a buzz at the back of his skull "—that we shouldn't touch it."

"So we booked the honeymoon suite just to get the goo off us?" Spider-man snorts. "The _honeymoon_ suite?"

Peter shrugs at him helplessly, while he tries to turn on an apparently power-dead Starkphone, and Spider-man looks through another wallet in the pile of things.

"And my name's apparently… _Jonathan Storm?_ " Spider-man holds up a gold-colored credit card, where MR. JONATHAN STORM is embossed onto the surface. "Ha, I knew one of us had to be rich. Guess it's me."

Peter pulls a face. "So you're Spider-man _and_ you're rich?" It doesn't seem fair, somehow.

"And stormingly hot, too," Spider-man says modestly. "Jonathan Storm. Huh. It doesn't sound _exactly_ right."

Peter privately thinks Storm suits him; Jonathan Storm looks like a force of nature to him. "Maybe it's because people just call you Spider-man."

"Oh, yeah," Spider-man says. "I guess that makes sense, secret identity and all." His eyes widen a little in surprise. "Yeah, Spider-man's famous for his secret identity. I must trust you with my real identity, then."

"Or," Peter says slowly, a horrible thought occurring, "I _didn't_ know your secret identity, and you've just outed yourself to me."

"I think the outing happened out _there,_ " Spider-man says, gesturing at his own and then Peter's crotch. Peter frowns, shuffling his weight from foot to foot. He's definitely more worried about this than Spider-man. Spider-man obviously realizes Peter's discomfort, because he moves closer and claps a comforting hand on Spider-man's elbow. "Hey, if I got naked with you, it probably means I trust you."

"We still don't know what's going on," Peter mutters, feeling a vulnerability that echoes deep to his bones. He wrinkles his mouth. "Should we call the front desk?"

"We could get room service," Spider-man says, brightly, picking up the last of the discarded objects by the sink — another webshooter that he fixes to his wrist. It looks wrong there, Peter thinks, stark against the white wool of the robe.

Room service is not exactly what Peter meant, but now Spider-man's said it, it couldn't hurt, could it, to get some food before venturing outside to try and find out what's really going on? Peter takes a moment more to look down at the gunky superhero outfits before following Spider-man back out to the bedroom. Spider-man's already on the phone, picking up the bed's coverlet and perching on the edge, tossing one of the mints onto the side table. Peter tries not to look at the alluring curve of Spider-man's calves. He's muscled all _over._ Peter suppresses a shiver.

"Yeah," Spider-man says, as the phone connects. "Our room number?" He glances at Peter; Peter hurries over to the door and opens it to reveal a long bland corridor. He peeks up at the number and closes the door swiftly; it's the weird buzzing feeling in the base of his skull which says to do it quickly, so he's not seen. It's a bizarre sensation. Maybe it's a symptom of a concussion?

"501," Peter says.

"We're in room 501," Spider-man says. "Yeah," he shares a glance with Peter, "Jonathan Storm in the honeymoon suite."

A shiver goes down Peter's spine at the idea that the hotel staff know that he's in the honeymoon suite with Jonathan Storm. They must be thinking Peter and Spider-man are there having sex. Lots and lots of sex. Peter can feel his cheeks heating as he pictures how amazing Spider-man and he would look together; he has to fight to stop his body reacting too much to the fantastic mental images.

"I was wondering if room service would be available? Yes, it's fine, charge it to my room." Spider-man leans over, pulls a menu from behind the telephone, and proceeds to order enough food for a small army. At Peter's stare, he covers the mouthpiece. "What, I'm hungry," Spider-man defends. "It's probably hungry work, saving the world."

"And expensive," Peter mutters, grateful to have something to latch onto which isn't the mental image of Spider-man kissing him. He has nice lips, Peter can't help but notice, and he remembers how Spider-man looked completely naked and he has to think furiously of other things — dissected hearts, car crashes, burning flesh — to stop the natural reaction from occurring.

"Shut up, I'm paying," Spider-man says, oblivious to Peter's internal dilemma. Then, "Yes, yeah, two of those, that would be _great,_ " he says louder into the receiver. There's a burst of soft noise. "Yeah," Spider-man says, his face tensing suddenly. "Yeah, if you could send that up with the food, that would be awesome. Thanks." He hangs up without saying more, and Peter gets a sinking feeling, so he sinks down on the bed too, near the rounded bottom of the heart. Spider-man's worried expression is not exactly reassuring.

"What is it?" Peter prompts.

Spider-man looks at him with a hollow expression. "They said someone left a message for us."

"Maybe it's a friend," Peter offers.

"Maybe it's a villain, coming back to finish the job," Spider-man says, eyebrows notched together.

"Maybe it's your mom," Peter suggests.

"Maybe it's my wife," Spider-man says, eyes widening almost comically.

Peter's stomach swoops unpleasantly.  "Maybe it's _my_ wife," he says, uncertainly.

They stare at each other.

"I don't think I'd cheat on my wife," Peter says, sounding the idea out. It sounds right, but then, what does Peter know? He knows superheroes exist, he knows quarks come in six flavors, and apparently he's realized just now that maybe he's some sort of scientist — but beyond that, he doesn't know anything that matters at all.

"What makes you think there's even been any cheating going on?" Spider-man raises both of his eyebrows. "I don't see any hickeys on either of us. We were on the floor, but I don't have carpet burn. Do you?"

Peter pulls a face at that. "I guess I just assumed. What with the mutual nudity and all." He feels ridiculously insecure now. He wishes he had clothes. "Do you really think we _weren't_ —?" He gestures between them. He feels like he's holding his breath waiting for Spider-man's response.

"Nah," Spider-man says, and Peter feels like he can breathe again when he continues, "I'm pretty sure we were banging." Spider-man winks at Peter. "Just wanted to float the idea out loud, see how it sounded."

"How _does_ it sound?"

Spider-man tilts his head. "You think I'd be able to stay away from an ass like yours?"

"Uh," Peter says, feeling suddenly uncomfortably heated. Spider-man's gaze is intense; the credit card said his name is Storm, and yeah, Peter feels like he's caught up in a tornado, being in the same room as this man. "Uh, how long until the food gets here?"

Spider-man gives him a shrewd knowing look, like he knows that Peter's changing the topic to avoid his feelings. "Ten minutes or so," he says.

It's a long ten minutes. Peter ends up shuffling up to join Spider-man near the headboard, and he takes his time unwrapping the second pillow's mint, taking small bites of it, and letting the chocolate spread over his tongue. He realizes halfway through that he might be allergic to dairy, or something, but by then, it's too late either way. He feels fine, for as far as _fine_ works when his head is spinning.

Retrograde amnesia, then. Peter glances at Spider-man's profile; he's crouched by the television now trying to make it work, but all it seems to be able to play is cartoons. Spanish-dubbed cartoons. Apparently neither of them speak Spanish, or if they do, that's been lost to whatever's happened to them too. Spider-man bashes the side of the television like it might make it suddenly start playing English-language content and it stops working completely; Spider-man slinks back to the bed with a sigh.

The term _retrograde amnesia_ comes easily to Peter's mind, but any firm memory he tries to recall is elusive. There are a lot of things that can cause amnesia. A psychologically-prompted psychogenic amnesia. A head blow causing damage to the hippocampus. Lesions to the brain from an accident or a neurological disease.

The latter's the most unlikely, he thinks, unless both he and Spider-man were on a specialist ward for a disease, because amnesia affecting two people concurrently? That's too rare. Maybe it's something they ate? Peter's best theory, though, is it has been caused by whatever is on the costumes in the bath, which would explain why they'd stripped them off. It's not an explanation as to why they're in a honeymoon suite, though.

Maybe whatever happened to them happened in the middle of their wedding? Peter doesn't think it sounds right, but he can picture Spider-man in a tuxedo, his blond hair tumbling over his forehead, those blue eyes smiling at him through a marriage ceremony. Yeah, Peter can picture that all right, and it's even more potent than thinking of Spider-man's lips. Peter scowls his erection away, because the robes aren't that big, and he really doesn't want to put a show on for Spider-man.

Peter's body apparently likes cutting things close, because his arousal just about withers by the time the door rattles.

"Room service," a voice calls out, and Spider-man leaps for the door happily, opening the door up too wide.

Peter flushes as a man in a neat black outfit comes in with a wheeled trolley bristling with plates covered by metal cloches. The waiter neatly removes the cloches, revealing pretty arrangements of still-steaming food, and he passes Spider-man an envelope before shooting Peter a sly side-glance. Peter realizes how it looks — both of them wrapped in barely-concealing robes, Peter sitting expectantly on the bed — and he flushes from head to toe. Spider-man is thankfully oblivious, waving the guy away and bounding back onto the bed with the envelope in his hand, more curious about that than the food for now.

The waiter leaves and the door clicks shut, and as Peter hurries over to put the bolt on, Spider-man rips open the envelope, and a piece of paper and a small _something_ falls onto Spider-man's lap. Peter clambers back onto the bed, swallows nervously and turns his attention to the letter, Spider-man immediately shuffling closer so they can both bend their heads over it at the same time.

 _TO JOHNNY & SPIDER-MAN; _the letter starts, and Peter feels like he's just lost the bottom of his stomach, because why is there an ampersand between Johnny and Spider-man? It doesn't make any sense. He forces himself to keep reading.

_You were right, Spider-man — the gunk's bad. Thank goodness you left!! It hit Ben a minute after you left; he nearly ripped my head off. We subdued him, it's okay, but we need you to stay where you are for now - Loki's still on a rampage and we haven't stopped him yet. Doctor Strange says your memories will probably be a wreck, so you might not understand what I'm writing._

"True enough," Spider-man mutters.

Peter nods commiseratively and keeps reading.

_The problem is if Loki doses you again you could die, so please, stay where you are - it's the safest place for you right now. I don't know how much you will remember so please, please follow my instructions. I promise you'll be okay. You BOTH mean so much to us, so we need you safe!! We know where you are and we're working on a remedy if time doesn't fix things like Strange thinks they will._

_Do NOT leave your hotel room. Just stay put, order room service and sleep. Reed and Strange both hypothesize that Loki's gunk will wear off in approximately 16 hours. Sprinkle the contained contents over your uniforms until the gunk dissolves. Do NOT touch the gunk. Just stay where you are!! Your memories will probably come back in the morning. If not, we'll come and pick you up and get you help if we can. If we can't, still STAY PUT, we WILL come for you._

_Do not leave the hotel!! Do not get in trouble!! Loki's out and looking for you and we're going to keep you safe._

_Do NOT call anyone!! I know what you're like, Johnny, so I'm trusting you, Spider-man, to keep him behaving sensibly! Look after each other!!_

_Yours,_

Peter picks up the small plastic package that fell out. It looks like some sort of powder. He turns it over in his fingers, trying not to think about what everything in that letter means.

"Well," Spider-man says slowly, "I knew my name wasn't Jonathan. Johnny sounds better. More… right." He looks up at Peter, looking distinctly uncertain.

"She wrote Johnny _and_ Spider-man, though," Peter says, slowly, because sounding the words out might help him figure out what's going on. He feels cold all over, even with the thick robe covering his nakedness.

Spider-man… no, he's not Spider-man after all, is he? He's Storm. Johnny Storm. _Storm_ looks at him with a dubious expression. "I guess I'm not Spider-man," he says, reluctantly. He squints at Peter. "Maybe you are?" Storm lifts up the webshooter attached to his wrist and regards it with a sad, downturned expression.

"You do have it on upside down," Peter says, his voice still holding onto that same strange slowness, like he's speaking underwater. The sentence startles him. How did he even _know_ that?

"Aha! You _know_ it's upside down!" Storm says, disconnecting it and passing it over, trading it for the small pouch of powder. "Aw. I thought being Spider-man was too good to be true."

Peter takes the webshooter and tosses it experimentally as Storm moves off to the bathroom to throw the power on the gunk-covered clothing; the shooter does feel weirdly _right_ in his hands. _Is_ he Spider-man? His brain conjures up a picture, of flying through the air, holding onto a length of white, the air whistling past his ears, a whooping sound in the air that might be coming from his own mouth.

It doesn't feel like a fantasy. It feels oddly like a _memory._

"Huh," Peter says, touching the webshooter reverently. Spider-man. He's _Spider-man._ Wow.

" _Man,_ " Storm sighs with feeling on his return, flopping backwards onto the bed. "This sucks. I'm not Spider-man. Boo." He looks across at Peter speculatively. "Maybe I'm your rich sugar daddy."

"Maybe you're a superhero too," Peter suggests. He doesn't know why he's so insistent about saying that, except… he suspects it might have something to do with wiping that disappointed expression from Storm's face.

"Maybe!" Storm leaps up excitedly, pushing the trolley of food to one side and turning to face Parker excitedly. "What do you think my powers might be? Super strength? Telekinesis?" He spreads his arms, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Maybe my powers need to be activated somehow."

"Clap your hands together?" Peter suggests.

Storm claps his hands together. "Ugh, nothing."

"Wrinkle your nose?"

Storm wrinkles his nose, but mostly in disgust at the suggestion. "I feel like there's a witty pop culture reference I should be flinging at you in horror," Storm says, "but my brain feels like a mushy pillow of uselessness."

"Maybe that's normal," Peter says.

Storm glares at Peter and flips him the bird. Which is also apparently not how his power is activated, if he has one. "Maybe I just don't have a power," Storm says, his mouth downturned again. "Ugh." He clenches his fists and promptly bursts into fire.

Peter yelps. Storm yelps and shrugs out of his bathrobe, too late, because it's already caught on fire, and Peter lurches forward to help throw it into the bathroom — even if it ends up burning the superhero outfits, it's better than burning up the hotel room with him in it — but Storm blazes even _harder,_ and Peter leaps back with a force and speed that makes breathing difficult. Peter watches as Storm scoops up the robe, which is still _on freaking fire,_ and Storm blazes backwards into the bathroom, dumping his sizzling robe into the sink and turning the water on.

"How do I turn this _off_?" Storm yelps. "Stop! Off! No! Fire, bad. _Bad fire._ " He continues to burn, although it doesn't seem to be setting the carpet or door on fire. _Yet,_ Peter thinks, pessimistically. At least he has a good view of the crazy events, he reflects, from up there on the ceiling.

Wait. _Wait._ What the _hell_? The ceiling? What the hell is his brain on, thinking he's on the _ceiling_?

Peter turns his glance reluctantly from the burning Storm to his feet, which are clinging onto the white ceiling of the honeymoon suite. He's on the freaking _ceiling._

"Fire off!" Storm yells. "Fire begone! Flame go! Flame _off_." And thankfully for everyone, Storm's fire disappears, leaving him naked and, at least, not on fire any more. His eyes are wide as he dashes back into the room and he looks up at Peter in glee. "Dude, I'm a fire man. How cool is that?" And then he realizes what Peter's realized — the ceiling thing — and his mouth drops open. "I'm a man who can turn into a man on fire, and my boyfriend is _undeniably_ Spider-man _._ This is probably the best day _ever_."

"I might agree, but for one thing," Peter says, while quietly thrilling at Storm calling him his boyfriend. Storm looks confused. Peter looks down and tries not to look at Storm's naked body, because apparently this fire thing means Storm is hot in _all_ of the ways, and he still can't be sure that they actually were banging before their memories disappeared or not.

"What?" Storm asks.

Parker looks Storm carefully in the eyes. " _How do I get down?_ "

#

Eventually they figure out that Peter can crawl across the ceiling and down the wall, which is about the weirdest thing _ever._ When he gets back down onto the ground, Storm's wrapped the bed's coverlet around himself, and Peter's starving — thank goodness for Storm ordering all the food in the world. They lay it out on the table, shift the roses and champagne to the floor in mutual denial for their potential new marriage, and start eating. Yeah, apparently being a superhero _is_ hungry work.

"Dude, you're Spider-man," Storm says, for about the thousandth time, around a mouthful of pizza. He looks pretty psyched. "And I'm— I can't be called Fire Man. I refuse. There's no way I'm called something that idiotic. I've gotta have a cooler superhero name. Scorch Man. The Flaming Hothead. I feel like my name's in here, _somewhere._ Yours was. I just gotta keep thinking."

"Firebug?" Peter suggests. "Blaze?"

"The Human Matchstick?" Storm wrinkles his mouth. "I guess we'll find out in the morning."

"You think the message is genuine?" Peter asks.

"I've got food, I'm comfortable, I have a good companion for the night, and if a villain comes for us, I can probably set him on fire," Storm says, shrugging. "I don't see any urgent need to test the hypothesis that the message _isn't_ real."

"You think maybe you're a scientist?" Peter perks up at the thought. He definitely is — now when he looks at the webshooter still on his wrist, he can picture a page-long list of equations and chemical diagrams in his head. Yeah. He's a scientist of some sort, for sure. He takes it off, but keeps it close; he may need it later, but for now, he feels safe.

"Urgh, can you think of any profession that could be more dull?" Storm laughs dryly.

Peter's mouth falls.

Storm notices that. "Oh, hey, you're a scientist?"

"I think so," Peter mumbles. "Although, I guess not. I'm probably too busy swinging around the city to do science." The thought is a weirdly sad one.

"I feel like I do something with my hands," Storm says, holding them up. "I've got really nice hands, and there's no calluses, but then, I turn into fire, so my body probably heals or something."

Peter bites into a hamburger, but only to stop himself from agreeing that Storm does have really nice hands.

"My name still feels weird," Storm says, "but my brain says there are a lot of superheroes in New York, and even though there seems to be a lot of things missing in there, it feels true. So I bet you do get time to do some science."

Peter offers Storm a small smile, because the thought is nice, and he _wants_ it to be true, so there's at least that.

"Nerd," Storm adds, and Peter feels a little of his goodwill towards Storm fade.

"You're going to feel so stupid when we get our memories back and it turns out you're the biggest nerd of all time," Peter tells him.

"Ha," Storm says. "You're on."

"Like, a bet?" Peter tilts his head, considering. Maybe he's a gambling addict and that's a bad suggestion, but Storm's eyes light up.

"Totally a bet," Storm says, extending his hand across the table.

"What are the terms?" Peter asks. "Don't say money, I don't even have a credit card in my wallet, let alone a gold one." He feels kind of guilty, actually, thinking that; Storm's probably spent a small fortune on the food they're eating. His appetite dwindles a little.

"Um… loser gives the winner a blowjob?" Storm waggles his eyebrows.

Peter refrains from voicing his immediate thought, which is something akin to _how is that even losing?_ "What if we don't—" he gestures, but Storm remains quiet, not jumping in to save Peter; he's going to have to say the words. He swallows. "What if we don't _do_ that?"

"That?" Storm says, smiling in a manner which says, _yeah, dude, I'm going to make you say it._

"What if we don't have sex?" Peter asks, forcing the words out. "What if we're just not like that?"

Storm shrugs. "It's a valid question, I suppose. But what I really want to say?" He looks at Peter with an intense expression again, the one that makes Peter think Storm is so very valid a name for him. "I can't imagine me not _wanting_ to."

Peter's throat is dry; he reaches blindly for the water pitcher in amongst the dishes, and he nods, tersely. "Okay," he says, unsteadily. "You're on. If there's no— if one of us is married, or involved, then the terms are—"

"—instantly null and void," Storm agrees, his eyes dark and unmoving from Peter's face.

"But if we're both single and available," Peter says, almost stumbling over _available,_ "then yeah." It feels like he's being impossibly brave, somehow, and he tilts his chin defiantly. "If we get our memories back and it turns out you're a nerd, then you have to—" His courage fails and he looks down.

"I won't do it if you can't say it," Storm says, sounding amused. He languidly runs his fingers over the rim of a glass, the pads of his finger caressing the surface, and Peter swallows again.

"If you're a nerd, you'll blow me. And if you're not, I'll get on my knees for you." Peter tilts his chin again, glaring at Storm, daring him to challenge the phrasing. But Storm just shivers and his pretty lips quirk, clearly pleased.

Peter feels like he's run a marathon and he buries himself in food again for a while, his brain racing. What if Storm's his… his _brother_? They don't look related, though. But maybe they were separated at birth. Maybe Storm is married to a relative of Peter's, and they're brothers-in-law. Maybe Storm is his boss, and Peter's an employee.

Maybe they really are boyfriends — or even, Peter flushes, newlywed superheroes. They _are_ in the honeymoon suite, after all.

"You're still nervous about what we might be to each other. I think I can fix that. Come on," Storm says, getting to his feet and leaning over, taking Peter's fork out of his hand and tugging him to his feet. Peter's distracted by how Storm's hand feels in his and lets Storm lead him over to the bed. It doesn't feel like a familiar gesture, but it does feel good. Really good. So good that Parker can't even imagine a world where he's not addicted to the feeling of his hand in Storm's.

"What are we—?" Parker blinks rapidly. "Do you— do you remember?" He flushes at the thought, at the idea that Storm remembers, at the idea of Storm dropping the coverlet and pushing Parker's head between his legs, because Storm's remembered that he's not a nerd, he's just a guy, a regular guy with non-nerdy hobbies, whatever _that_ might entail — cars or something? And yeah, Peter's finding it difficult right now to finish a single thought.

Storm rolls his eyes and then smiles at him. "Nope," he says. "But I'm curious, aren't you?"

"Uh," Peter says.

"I don't know what the nerdy name for muscle memory is," Storm says, winking at Peter and letting go of him to climb onto the bed. "But the way I see it is that we both have holes in our memories, and I'd like to fill in a couple of them if we can." Storm's smile widens, and his gaze isn't leaving Peter's face at all, even though Peter's finding it hard to stand still. "So how about it?"

"How about what, exactly?"

"I'm thinking… a cuddle," Storm says, pursing his lips like he's thinking about it, but then he looks Peter up and down in a way that indicates he's not precisely stopping his thoughts at _cuddle_. The concentrated attention is making Peter feel dizzier than he has since waking up. "We cuddle, and if it feels wrong, then we won't shake hands on the bet. It feels right, and neither of us freaks out, then we shake on it. What do you say, big guy?"

"Um," Peter says, a thrum of anticipation thrilling through his body, and he slowly curves around the base of the heart, gingerly climbing onto the other side of the bed like it might explode, "I guess it might be a prudent idea to explore any procedural memory that might be unaffected by the— the _thing_ happening to us."

"The thing happening to us," Storm repeats, his smile lazy but his eyes still so, so intent. He pats the mattress right next to him. "A little closer. I won't bite." His smile sharpens. "Not unless that interests you."

Peter's blush deepens, which is probably answer enough, and he ducks his head, but shuffles closer. Storm opens his arm and Peter slowly moves into the space it leaves, sitting upright, leaning his head softly on Storm's shoulder, not committing too much to the contact.

"Freaking out yet?" Peter asks, unsure why he's whispering.

"No," Storm says, lowering his arm so his hand settles on Peter's hip, gentle like a dream. His voice sounds good, in the space around Peter's head. Like the air is supposed to sound this way all the time, like Peter's always supposed to be this close to him. "You?"

"No," Peter breathes. This close, he can count Storm's eyelashes. He's distracted enough to do it, but loses count as Storm's thumb rubs against Peter's hip in a hypnotic rhythm. It's not even that much movement, but Peter's body sparks into life at the touch. It doesn't feel familiar, not at all. A feeling like this _should_ feel familiar, if he'd known it before, Peter thinks, but it feels new. Brand new. New and amazing. Like fireworks are exploding with every slight movement. "No, this feels fine."

"Just fine?" Storm asks, a puff of warm air against Peter's cheek enough to make Peter turn, and he startles at how close Storm's face is to his. Storm's smile is easy, entrancing. "I'd really like to try kissing you, if that's okay." His eyes are so, so close to Peter's, and his distracting lips are so close that Peter can almost taste him.

"Just to test this muscle memory theory, you mean?" Peter asks.

There's another warm breath of air scorching Peter's cheeks like windburn as Storm laughs warmly, and oh, that's a muscle memory of its own; Spider-man spends time flying around New York on his webs, and this— this feels like flying too. Like there's air beneath the two of them, not a firm heart-shaped bed. "Mm, I'm starting to see why you might like science," Storm says and Peter starts to say something else, something warm, something flirty as a response, but Storm steals the air right out of his mouth by kissing him.

It's like being burned alive. Peter's gasping into Storm's mouth and clutching for him blindly before he even really realizes what's going on; Storm makes an agreeable noise and lurches forwards, the coverlet slipping from around him to pool closer to his waist as he rolls his body so it covers Peter's. Peter sinks with the movement, sliding to a horizontal position on the bed, his head hitting the pillow, Storm moving with him like it's just so _natural_.  

Maybe they have done this before, Peter thinks, but how can that be? If he'd felt something like this before, how could he have ever left a bed that had Storm in it? They disconnect to breathe, forehead against forehead as they pant against each other, and Storm braces himself over Peter, an arm either side of his, staring down at him with a lost, desperate expression. The coverlet's still wrapped around Storm; their hips are vaguely aligned, enough for Peter to feel like he's almost going mad with it, with the barest kiss of friction between them.

"I wish I remembered this," Storm breathes, "I wish I could remember you." His voice sounds ragged, burned, and his eyes scrape Peter's face like he's committing him to memory as fast as he can, replacing the memories that should be there.

"But you don't, do you?" Peter asks, miserable, his eyes roaming over Storm's face in return. If his memory only ever lasts for this day, then he's going to fill it with Storm's face, over and over. And if his memories return, and for some reason they can't have this, he can't have Storm like this— He needs to fill his brain with Storm. He needs to be able to have enough of Storm in his mind to survive a lifetime.

The idea of a lifetime without Storm is a knife to his heart.

Storm looks winded, upset, and his head sags for a moment, before looking at Peter with a clear fire that Peter, oh, that Peter loves the instant he sees it, his heart filled to bursting before he can even haul in a new breath. "No," Storm admits. "You feel… you feel new."

Peter's hands move without deliberate intent, his fingertips tracing the angle of Storm's chin, the line of his shoulder blades. "Oh," he says, in a small voice, and he's already stilling beneath Storm, the disappointment muting some of the sparks dancing underneath the surface of his touch-sensitive skin.

"How about you?" Storm says, peering at Peter with a hurricane's worth of intensity this time; he settles his weight onto Peter, and it feels right. It feels _good_. It still doesn't feel familiar, and Peter can't shake just how sad he feels about that.

"It doesn't feel familiar," Peter admits, voice hitching, "but—"

"But?" Storm's voice lurches upwards in pitch, betraying the fact that Peter's gotten into his calm too and shaken it to pieces.

"It kind of… feels like…" Peter swallows and feels like maybe he's ripping himself open when he squints shyly at Storm and says, "It feels like coming home?"

He makes it into a question, because of how vulnerable he feels, but Storm's face widens into another of his bright, consuming grins and he kisses Peter again, demanding, hungry for it, like he knows it isn't really a question after all.

"You're so beautiful," Storm says, right into Peter's skin, pressing kisses into his neck so Peter can desperately try to haul in air to his burning lungs. "Spider-man," Storm adds, wonderingly rubbing his knuckles along Peter's cheek, " _my_ Spider-man."

"My firestorm," Peter breathes back, and Storm makes a noise which should be almost humiliating in response, but is actually scorchingly hot, and his hand reaches down to tangle at Peter's waist, to unknot the robe, and Peter nods, and says yes to everything Storm suggests next: yes and yes and _yes._

#

Peter's whole body aches. It's a pleasant sort of ache, he thinks, the kind he only gets after a decent supervillain fight — and what he's feeling right now is actually even better than _that_ feeling. He's not quite sure where he is, exactly, but there's a soft morning light shining in through a crack in a pair of heavy cream curtains, and he feels relaxed and comfortable, a heavy warmth curled up against him. He smiles indulgently, stretching into the mild pain of the feeling, and then he freezes.

Because he remembers.

Peter panics. Oh, hell. Oh, _hell._ Except, if this is hell, it's the sweetest hell in existence. The soft warm weight against Peter's side suddenly makes so much sense, and his gaze drifts left in slow understanding. Johnny's sleeping, curled up next to him, his hair tumbled every which way, because Peter had— Peter had done that — and Peter's mouth is dry, because Johnny is _beautiful._

Peter stares, his eyes moist, and he tenses up for a moment in panic, because Johnny _hadn't_ known — he _hadn't_ known that Peter was Spider-man, and they'd never even been together, not once, not even one kiss, and wow how stupid was that, because they were actual dynamite together, fire and easy combustibles, fire and an acre of dried grass — but Johnny hadn't _known_ who he was, not really, and, and, and—

"Stop freaking out and breathe, webhead," Johnny murmurs, wriggling deeper into Peter's body heat. "I already knew, remember?"

Peter startles at how well Johnny knows him, and then his cheeks burn hot, because, _yeah._ Yeah, Johnny Storm knows Peter Parker is Spider-man. He doesn't even have to mentally try and chronicle Johnny finding out in the middle of a Loki-inflicted bout of amnesia, because it _didn't_ happen during it.

It happened just before.

#

Peter remembers it now, in aching clarity:

They both got covered by Loki's gunk; alas, not even a weird sexy metaphor. Both Johnny and Spider-man insisted it was probably dangerous, even as Ben laughed at them for thinking it, and then Johnny insisted on dragging Peter into the nearest hotel so they could get cleaned up. And the only room free had been the Honeymoon suite, which was okay, it had barely registered: any room would have been fine, because they thought they only needed the bathroom.

Then Peter had realized his memories were going fuzzy, and the world was going a little bit fuzzy, and the two of them ran into the bathroom of room 501 to strip off the costumes and get rid of the gunk as soon as possible, because it had to be the thing trying to dissolve their memories away. Peter froze indecisively at the realization that he had to remove his mask, but Johnny looked at him with the softest, fondest expression Peter had ever seen from him.

"I already know," Johnny said, as Peter detached his webshooters and added them to the pile of stuff next to the sink.

Peter flinched, and said, "Know _what_?" and Johnny smiled like it was the first day of sun after a long, dark winter.

"Who you are, dummy," Johnny said, and Peter opened his mouth to protest, but Johnny said, "Peter Parker," and oh, it felt like the world had turned completely upside down. He'd never before imagined how amazing his name would sound in Johnny Storm's mouth, meant for him and Spider-man at the same time. Or maybe he'd never let himself think about how it might sound, because then he would want it, all the time.

"What do you mean, you know?" Peter blurted, yanking the mask off and dropping it into the bath with a grimace. " _How?_ "

"Not until recently," Johnny said, and the whole event was turning out to be the most distracting thing ever, because Johnny was stripping and Johnny _knew his secret._ "You remember when I came by to see you, a couple of months ago, after the U-Foes hit your school?"

"Yeah," Peter said, wriggling out of his costume, wondering why spandex had to be _so freaking tight,_ anyway? Johnny didn’t seem to be having trouble shedding his Fantastic Four costume, flinging it into the bottom of the tub with extreme prejudice, and, oh god, Johnny went commando, apparently, why did Peter have to find that out??

"You were wearing like, really tight pants," Johnny said, "like, _really_ tight pants."

Peter tried to figure out which pair Johnny meant. "Oh, the beige ones?" Asking a question helped him forget he was stripping in front of his now _very_ naked friend. Well. It helped a little. "Yeah, I'm not exactly loaded. It's not like being Spider-man leaves me a lot of time for an actually decently-paying job. I've had them since I was sixteen."

"Well," Johnny said, ducking down to help Peter pull off his boots, "maybe they fit you then, but they don't really fit you now."

"Do I have _I am Spider-man_ written across the back of them, or something?" Peter asked, willing his voice to stay level, even though his head was still screaming _oh my god_ and he wasn't entirely sure whether he was mentally screaming about Johnny knowing his identity or Johnny having no clothes on or the weird feeling of his brain folding in on itself.

"Sort of," Johnny said, and he was blushing, probably because Peter was down to a brief pair of pants. Peter had to fight not to cover himself; they were the only kind that didn't give his suit VPL, okay? He stripped them off too, just in case, determinedly not looking Johnny in the face. "Do you think this hotel is snazzy enough to have robes?"

"Johnny," Peter said, wondering whether he should grab one of the bath towels off the rail, but Johnny was wandering around without clothes, and his brain was really going very fuzzy at the edges, so he followed him out into the middle of the room. The bed was in the shape of a heart. Peter felt like crying, to be honest. "Johnny. How did my _pants_ make you realize it was me?"

Johnny turned in the middle of the room, looking fond and dizzy all at once. "I've kind of spent years staring at Spider-man's— well, at your ass," Johnny said. "It's very distinctive," he tagged on, sounding thoughtful.

Peter stared, his cheeks heating, his mouth opening to say something else, but the ground tumbled below him, and he vaguely registered Johnny catching him, and saying, "Whoa, whoa, I've got you, I've got you" and they'd both fallen together into a heap on the carpet, not quite making it to the bed, and—

—they'd woken up with their memories gone.

#

"Ha," Johnny says, a sleep-rough warmth to his voice. "I _thought_ I didn't feel like a nerd."

Peter's eyes widen, and fly to meet Johnny's amused gaze. His cheeks heat. It's probably best that all his blood goes to his face, not… anywhere else. "Uh," Peter says. He's probably blushing as red as his uniform.

"I'm gonna call Sue," Johnny says, reaching for the phone. "Might be awkward if she bust in to save the day and found us both still buck-ass naked."

"Uh," Peter says, helpfully, staring as Johnny stretches and pulls the hotel phone over to sit in his lap. He dials the extension for an outside line and Peter's distracted by Johnny's fingers, dancing effortlessly over the number pad and curling over the handset.

"Hi, Sue? It's me," Johnny says, and Peter stares and stares at him, unable to stop himself. "If you could come by with some clothes," Johnny says, "that would be great. I, uh—" He side-glances at Peter, and pulls a face. "Two sets, please. Yeah. Yeah, it would be perfect if you could just leave them with the concierge. Yeah, we're great. Yeah, I'll see you later. _Yeah._ I don't know, I'll check." Johnny covers the handset and glances back at Peter. "You okay?"

"Uh," Peter says.

"Spider-man says _uh,_ " Johnny says. "It's okay. I'm naked and dazzling him with it, I think." He laughs at something Sue says. "Shut up. I'll see you later. Yes, yes, for a full check-up." He rolls his eyes at Peter. "We'll be a few hours. No. _Yes._ Bye, Sue." He clinks the phone down, and then turns over and slumps down onto the bed on his back, folding his hands behind his head. "She's gonna bring a change of clothes for both of us and drop them downstairs so your identity stays safe."

"Oh," Peter says, touched by the thoughtfulness. Johnny smiles at him, and makes no move to really cover himself up, even though the coverlet really isn't covering too much for either of them; Peter's robe was a casualty at some point during the night. Peter flushes. He'd had sex with Johnny. A whole lot of it. "I was going to tell you," Peter blurts. "About the Spider-man thing. Soon. I mean. It was just hard finding the right time."

Johnny shrugs. There's a weird expression on his face, something uncertain; contrasted to Johnny's usual confidence, it's a little unsettling. "It's okay," Johnny says.

"It's not _really,_ " Peter says. "I trust you. I've trusted you for years. There's no good excuse."

"I know how hard it is," Johnny says. "Trying and failing to find the right time to tell someone something important."

"Yeah?"

Johnny glances away from Peter, suddenly finding the walls of their hotel room very interesting. "Well, it's not like I found the right time to talk about my feelings."

Peter's heart does a hopeful, stuttering sort of leap in his chest. "Oh," Peter says, as his heart continues to do several confusing things in a row.

"To be fair," Johnny says, "I've only had two months to process that the two guys I've been majorly crushing on are actually the same person."

Peter's heart _trembles_ and he reaches out with his hand, finding Johnny's and lacing their fingers together. He's probably gripping too hard, but the details aren't the important part thing to focus on right now. "That sounds… efficient."

"Efficient?" Johnny laughs and looks at him again, and he looks— he looks _so alive._ Peter returns his gaze, his heart bursting with love, and oh, that's a secret that Peter's _definitely_ not going to wait too long to tell Johnny. "Efficient. Oh my god, you massive nerd." Johnny freezes, and then looks at Peter's mouth speculatively.

Peter squints at him. "Your cars are _definitely_ a nerdy thing. Don't even try and pretend otherwise."

"They're not nerdy. They're cool."

"Plus, we didn't shake on it," Peter says.

Johnny makes a noise of frustration, but rolls his eyes, accepting. "Can't blame a guy for trying."

"Maybe later," Peter sighs, knowing he's always going to give in to what Johnny wants. Especially when it's something that doesn't exactly rate as an inconvenience.

Johnny grins, leans over, and kisses him, aiming for something brief, but Peter slides both hands around Johnny's neck and surges in, pulling him closer. Deepening the kiss. Coming home.


End file.
